LJ Maas - Rebecca’s Cove

“All right, you’re on,” BJ said.

By the time the two started on their way, Hobie began to think their uneasy alliance might work. BJ had refused any help in getting herself cleaned up, although Hobie did teach her the trick of tying a garbage bag around her cast to take a quick shower. BJ now wore a faded “No Lights in Wrigleyville” T-shirt and Mack’s sweatpants.

“You’re a Cubs fan?” BJ asked in surprise as Hobie placed the blue felt cap with its red C on her head.

They had just walked out of the house and Hobie knew what was coming next. She had taken grief most of her life for her undying loyalty to her favorite, albeit consistently losing, baseball team. “Is that a problem?”

“Hey, not with me. I just thought us Chicagoans were the only gluttons for punishment.”

“I guess it goes to show you there’s no accounting for taste and that the Midwest doesn’t hold the patent on masochism.”

“Touché.”

“Your car or mine?” Hobie asked as they came to the driveway. “I’d be happy to drive your Jaguar.”

“I’ll just bet you would. No way. You know how much they hit me up for insurance to rent this thing? Even the surcharges had surcharges. Besides, I’ve seen the way you drive. Close up, remember?”

“Very funny. Then it’s the truck.” Hobie tried to hide her disappointment.

“Ah, the deathmobile,” BJ said as they came closer to the white Ford truck. She pretended to pay no attention to Hobie sticking out her tongue at the comment.

Hobie pulled open the driver’s door and began to pick up some garbage and brush off the seat. “It’s a little messy, I admit. I usually try to have it cleaned before I go anywhere, but spring is my busy season.”

BJ stared into the open window on the passenger side. Animal hair, leaves, twigs, and dirt covered the cab. She picked up something that looked like a tuft of cotton from the seat.

“What the hell was in here last?” “Um...sheep.”

BJ looked through the window at Hobie, who was standing on the other side of the truck. No words were necessary during the long, painful seconds that BJ glared at Hobie.

“Come on, Dr. Doolittle, we’re takin’ the Jag.”

“You are the angel of death. You know that, don’t you? I have never had so many terrible things happen to me in such a short space of time. Are you sure your last name isn’t Mengele?”

BJ folded her arms against her chest and leaned against the red Jaguar. She glared down at Hobie, who was kneeling on the ground.

“Oh, for God’s sake, it’s only a tire, and it wasn’t my fault,” Hobie snapped. She was hot, and having to justify her driving skills to BJ Warren was more than she could take. “It was a nail. I’m sorry, but these are just normal glasses. I forgot to wear my amazing vision glasses so I could see a roofing nail in the middle of the road.”

It dumbfounded Hobie that she had gone thirty-eight years without wishing grievous harm to anyone, but one hour with BJ Warren and Hobie wanted to throttle the woman. “I can’t believe you don’t know how to change a tire.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t know how. I simply said that I don’t change tires.”

Hobie paused long enough to glare at BJ. She didn’t understand what happened next. She certainly didn’t know why. Everything seemed to catch up to her at once. She tried to tell herself that she was hot and grumpy from changing the tire and that she hadn’t eaten breakfast yet. She reasoned that the past twenty-four hours and running into BJ again—literally—had been a chaotic mixture of delight and irritation. No matter how Hobie tried to rationalize her next action, the simple fact was that she threw the tire iron to the ground and began to cry.

Almost instantaneously, BJ looked as though she’d been thrown into a tank full of sharks. An expression like panic settled on her face. “Wha—what are you doing?”

“I’m crying, okay? Is that all right with you?”

“No, it’s not all right...stop it,” BJ said softly. “Please. Come on, stop,” she pleaded.

“Why the hell do you care if I cry?”

“Because I don’t like it when women cry.” BJ inched forward, leaning on the car for support, then reached out and barely touched Hobie’s shoulder. “I especially don’t like it when I’m the one that’s responsible. Look, I know I can be...difficult.”

That declaration seemed to make all the difference to Hobie. A few tender words and her tears instantly quieted. She thought twice about what she had heard, thinking that maybe her ears had been playing tricks on her. The BJ Warren Hobie knew was not the kind of woman to apologize—to anyone. Hobie wiped her cheek with the back of one hand and looked up. She had never seen a more contrite expression.

“Okay,” BJ said. “I can be more than difficult. I can be a bitch some of the time. I know that. I really didn’t mean to make you cry, though.”

For Hobie, in that instant, BJ Warren became human. She could be bitchy, annoying, and selfish, but she had displayed her own human frailty. There was also her awareness of her own actions. For the first time since she’d met BJ, Hobie wondered if BJ’s behavior wasn’t masking her own insecurities. “Thanks. That helps more than you know.”

“So you’re done now? I mean, you’re okay?” BJ asked, although she couldn’t make herself look at Hobie.

“Yeah.” Hobie wiped her eyes with a tissue from her pocket. “I’m done.” She picked up the tire iron once more and tightened the last nut. She stood and replaced the tools in the car’s trunk. “Don’t worry. It’s probably just PMS. I’m about two days from my period.”

“Okay, TMI, TMI.” “Huh?”

“Too much information. I mean, I’m sorry and all, but I don’t want to know any more than that.”

“Sorry. I didn’t know you had such a weak constitution.”

Hobie smiled weakly and BJ breathed a sigh of relief. “Are we ready then?”

Hobie nodded. She was a little more than embarrassed at her sudden and unexpected tears, but she was also stunned at BJ’s reaction. BJ had gone from arrogant to groveling in a matter of seconds. So tears are your kryptonite, eh? You are so lucky I’m not manipulative. She smiled to herself as she realized that someday, someone would come along and capitalize on BJ’s secret weakness.

“I wish you would have let me call the auto club to change that,” BJ said as they got into the car.

“Are you kidding? And have Bubba from the mainland go back and tell all his buddies that he had to change a tire for some helpless woman on Ana Lia? Come on, when you’re healthy, you do this kind of stuff, right?”

“What kind of stuff?”

“This—change a tire, the oil, an occasional headlight.” “Are you insane?”

“Thank you.”

“Sorry,” BJ mumbled. “I just meant that, well, I live in the city, born and raised. Most of the time, I don’t even drive my car. I take a cab or the train unless I’m leaving the city.”

“Seriously?” The admission surprised Hobie.

“Hey, I’m still pissed that they did away with full-service gas stations. I barely know how to unlock the cap to get gas in the thing. I do hope this will remain confidential, however.”

“The fact that you’re a total cherry when it comes to cars will go with me to the grave.”

Hobie’s wide grin was the only sign BJ needed to see that Hobie felt better. “Very funny. Just drive, Doc.”

They agreed that food should be their next priority. Three minutes later, Hobie pulled the Jag into the parking lot beside the diner.

“I didn’t realize it was so close,” BJ said as she carefully extracted her long limbs from the vehicle.